


trust is a knife at your throat and a kiss on your lips

by thundersnowstorm



Series: from what i've tasted of desire [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASOIAF Rare Pair Week, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Elia Martell Lives, F/M, Queen Elia Martell, Trust Issues, shameless use of sun/stars imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-06 20:28:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17946578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thundersnowstorm/pseuds/thundersnowstorm
Summary: Arthur returns from Dorne and Elia cannot look at him without feeling fury course through her veins like wildfire.





	trust is a knife at your throat and a kiss on your lips

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [a liar, a thief, a sword](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15363378) by [framboise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/framboise/pseuds/framboise). 



> Day five of asoiafrarepairs week - day/night

The High Septon crowns Aegon the Sixth of His Name on an overcast morning. The crowds gathered at the base of Baelor's Sept are silent as holy water is sprinkled on little Aegon's forehead. He wrinkles his nose and looks up at Elia. She hushes him gently.

The crown is more of a circlet, a simple golden band of rubies and black diamonds that Aegon will likely never wear again. It is almost ridiculous, to crown a child who has seen fourteen scant moons, but ceremony must be honored. Elia kneels, ignores her knees' protests as she holds Aegon steady before her. The High Septon places the crown on his forehead and it is done.

In the distance, a slender ray of sunshine breaks through the thick cloud layer.

…

"Ser Jaime, would you remind Ser Arthur that his post is at Snow's nursery, not at my side?" At no point does Elia look up from the letter she is writing.

"Your grace, if we could just talk -"

"I'm busy," she interjects. Still, she does not look at Arthur.

Jaime is frozen, torn between the queen who commands him and the brother who knighted him. "Ser Arthur, I think you should go," he says at last.

There is a long moment of silence. Finally, "I serve at your grace's pleasure," says Arthur, bows, and leaves.

The door closes quietly, but it sounds like a thunderclap to Elia. She lays her quill down.

"Your grace," says Jaime, hesitant. "I may be overstepping my bounds, but perhaps you should let Ser Arthur explain himself. He is a good man, he wants only what is best for the crown."

"You're right, Ser Jaime, you overstep yourself," she says coolly. "No, my decision is final. You and Ser Barristan can guard me and the children. Ser Arthur's duties are elsewhere."

She cannot dismiss a Kingsguard, much less three of them, but if she could dismiss the men who accompanied her late husband on his quest to destroy the kingdom for lust, she would. As it stands, she will not tolerate their presence if she does not have to.

…

Ashara arrives from Dorne and Elia almost weeps for the joy of it. Her friend has aged in her time away from King's Landing, and there is a certain grief in those violet eyes of hers that was not there before, but she is here, and Elia can breathe a little easier.

She lost the child, Elia learns later, and she mourns with her friend. Brandon Stark is dead too, but they do not speak of him. Elia was there, watching him slowly choke trying in vain to reach a sword that he would never reach. The throne room had smelled of burnt human flesh that day, and if she thinks too long on it, she can still taste it on the back of her tongue.

No, they do not speak of Brandon Stark.

It is easy, in a way, to sink back into a rhythm reminiscent of the days before the war, Ashara her ever-loyal shadow. Queenship is lonely, Elia finds, and the list of people she can trust is shorter than ever. The rebel lords have not yet quieted, the loyal lords poke around looking for favors to cash in, and Tywin Lannister has begun to stir once more from his distant keep. Ser Jaime guards her most days, watchful as a hawk, but it is Ashara to whom Elia can entrust to carry out her will and guard her secrets.

Of course, such trust can be emboldening.

"Have you spoken with Arthur?" Ashara asks one day.

Elia's quill stills. "I don't have anything to say to him."

Ashara sets her embroidery to the side, at last giving up feigning interest in the task. "I've known you for far too long to even begin to believe that."

"I don't want to speak to him."

That's closer to the truth, if not quite there yet.

"Oh trust me, I understand." Ashara's eyes flash violet. "I have yelled at him at length. I am still mad at him, to be completely honest. But ignoring him will not change anything."

"Arthur isn't my brother. If I never speak to him again, what exactly happens?"

"You regret it," says Ashara. Grief has given her a bluntness she did not have before. "I am not asking you to speak to Arthur for his sake, or even for mine. Do it because if you don't, it will fester within you until everything you have ever felt for him has turned to rot."

"He _left_ " Elia snaps, and the quill in her hand splinters. "Bad enough that Arthur helped my husband take a child for a mistress and start war, but he left me here too, at the mercy of a mad king who would have watched me burn. At least Rhaegar had the decency to die so I didn't have to see his face again."

Ashara does not flinch. "I'm not the one who you want to tell that to."

…

Elia does not sleep well anymore. There are too many nightmares to have, too many ghosts ready to reappear the moment she closes her eyes. Many nights are spent laying wide awake, awaiting and dreading sleep in equal measures. She becomes well-acquainted with the canopy of her bed, learns each fold like the creases of her palms. Sometimes she goes to the children's bedchambers, watches the steady rise and fall of Aegon's chest, listens to the low purr of Rhaenys's little cat.

It is calming, but some nights her veins itch with too much anxiety, too much energy for her nerves to properly quiet. She walks the Keep those nights, wandering aimlessly through the twisting halls. In daytime, the castle is never quiet, always humming with activity, but at the hour of the wolf, all Elia can hear is the whisper of her silk robe against the stone floors.

She ends up in the courtyard one night, Ser Jaime a few steps behind her. He refuses to let her walk the castle alone, and it is amusing, how this boy of six-and-ten worries over her like a mother hen. He is quiet, leaving her to her thoughts, and she appreciates it. Far above, the stars twinkle like diamonds hidden in black velvet and it is almost peaceful.

The blessed quiet is broken by a distant thud and Elia frowns. Unbidden, her feet take her in the direction of the sound, towards the White Sword Tower. The cool night air has a bite to it and she pulls her robe tighter around herself.

In the training yard beneath the White Sword Tower, a man is whacking at a training dummy. All Elia can see of him is a dark head and the blur of steel but it is enough to know him.

Arthur hears them approach and turns, chest heaving with exertion. His usual armor and jerkin have been discarded, leaving him in a loose shirt with untied laces. His breath catches upon seeing her. He sheathes his sword, the gleaming Dawn, and bows.

"My queen," says Arthur, and his voice cuts Elia like a blade. "Ser Jaime. It is late, I did not expect…"

"Is a queen not allowed to walk about her own castle at night?" asks Elia, and her tone is too sharp but she does not care. "Did I need your permission, mayhaps?"

Arthur flushes. "I never meant to imply so, forgive me, your grace."

Elia bites down and tastes copper. She almost does not recognize herself like this, the white-hot anger burning a path straight to her core. Even Rhaegar does not elicit this sort of fury in her, and Arthur's sins are forgettable next to his.

 _Hatred is just love turned rotten by anger_ , she thinks, in a voice that sounds too much like her mother's for her comfort.

"I can take my leave, if your grace would like some time alone," says Arthur, as though it is him who is intruding.

"No," she says, too quickly. She hesitates. "Ser Jaime, if you could give us a moment?"

Jaime blinks, surprised. "Your grace?"

"Ser Arthur will not let any harm come to me," she says. Arthur looks away. "Go, get some sleep."

Jaime leaves, and it is just the two of them, alone but for the stars.

"Your grace-" begins Arthur, but she cuts him off.

"No, ser. I have had to hold my tongue for too many years, it is my turn to speak." Elia's hands fist in her skirts. "What were you _thinking_ , Arthur? When Rhaegar told you of his plans, did you never think of the consequences? When you were spiriting away the daughter of a Great Lord, did you never think of the war that might follow?" Her voice cracks. "When you were helping my husband obtain a mistress, did you never think of _me_?"

"Every day," he whispers. "Every day. I followed Rhaegar because I trusted him, trusted that he was taking the risk for a greater purpose than mere lust. I never meant for you to get hurt."

"You were furious the day of the tourney, do you remember that?" she asks. "You all but renounced Rhaegar afterwards, swore to me you would fix things. What _happened_?"

It seems so long ago, that fateful day in Harrenhal. Ashara had been wearing a beautiful violet gown and Rhaenys had been fussing over losing some doll of hers and when Rhaegar had placed that crown of winter roses on Lyanna Stark's lap, Elia had felt the world fall away beneath her. Arthur had come to her after, eyes blazing with fury, swearing he would talk sense into Rhaegar. Then the two of them had disappeared and soon after, so had Lyanna Stark.

"I tried," Arthur says, and he cannot meet her eyes. "I went to him, and had I had less control of myself I would have struck him where he stood. I should have done so, before he got the chance to open his mouth." He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing. "But he spoke, and Rhaegar always had a way with words. He always seemed so sure of himself, and all he ever asked in return was trust." He looks up, and his eyes are pleading with her, begging her to understand. "So I trusted him to know what he was doing. I will live with that mistake for the rest of my life."

Rhaegar had always been a singer, an artist with words. If he had said the sky was green, you believed it, because he believed it too. When Elia had met him, she had thought him to be the cleverest man she had ever known. Now, she can see him for who he was - a man so entrapped by prophecy he had dragged everyone around him down as well.

"And when war broke out?" she challenges. "When the realm turned into a river of blood, and a girl of five and ten grew large with a Blackfyre in her belly, did you never think Rhaegar might not have been the man to trust?"

"What could I do?" says Arthur, and he sounds broken, defeated. Gone is the bright-eyed boy she had met as a girl, head full of dreams of knighthood. "I was sworn to obey Rhaegar. Even if I had tried, my brothers would have cut me down where I stood. All I could do was try to protect the Lady Lyanna and pray for a quick end to the war."

"And who was supposed to protect me?" Elia hisses. He flinches. "I was alone in King's Landing but for the company of Ser Jaime, a boy of just six-and-ten, and Aerys, who would have killed me and the children if it had crossed his fancy."

"Rhaegar swore you were safe."

Elia laughs at that, a high, mocking sound she does not recognize from herself. "You never learned, did you? Rhaegar was as mad as his father and yet you trusted him. What does that make you?"

She is being cruel and Arthur looks gutted, but she cannot stop twisting the knife.

"I'm sorry," he rasps. "Elia - your grace - I will never forgive myself for what I have done to you, to the realm. I do not ask your forgiveness. I do not deserve it. But you are my queen, and all I wish is to serve you. Mayhaps that might begin to atone for my sins."

She lets out a shaky breath. "You betrayed me," she says, and it is not quite true but that does not stop the feeling of betrayal. "Tell me ser, how am I supposed to trust you?"

Arthur falls to the ground - not on one knee, as a knight does before his queen, but on both, head bowed as a supplicant before an altar. He draws his sword, laying the moon-pale steel on the dirt between them.

"I am yours," he says, voice hoarse. "Ask me to cut off my own hand and I shall. Ask me to cut down your enemies and I will ask no questions. There is nothing I would not do for you. You are my queen. All I ask is to be your sword."

"And if I were to ask you to do something that would bring you dishonor?" Elia asks, and she feels dizzy. _Get up_ , she wants to yell at him, but she cannot.

"You would never ask such a thing," says Arthur, looking up at her. The Sword of the Morning does not often look vulnerable, and even on his knees he could disarm most any foe, but if Elia picked up the sword at her feet and placed it at his throat, he would not stop her. She swallows.

"Is this how you trusted Rhaegar?" she asks, and the words taste like acid. "Did you trust him never to ask anything dishonorable of you, before he had you steal a woman-child away in the dark of night?"

"No," he says, and there is no uncertainty in his voice. "I trusted Rhaegar as my prince, as a friend even, but you are not Rhaegar. I have known you since we were children, playing in the Water Gardens together. I ask only to serve at your side, your grace, from this day until my last."

He is close enough to her to slap if she so wished. He would take it without a word, say nothing about the sting of her palm against his cheek. He is close enough to kiss - all she would have to do is lean over to capture his lips with hers. He would take it without a word, motionless as a statue of the Warrior, but when she pulled away, his eyes would be closed.

(It is hard to remember those days in the Water Gardens, long ago as they were. They had been little more than children, playing at love. But those clumsy kisses had ignited Elia's veins more than a thousand of Rhaegar's kisses ever did, and even now, she cannot help but see how the thin shirt moves above the corded muscle of Arthur's arms, the gleam of sweat on his neck. They are tethered to each other, two stars forever orbiting each other in the endless night sky.)

"If you ever betray me again," she says, "I will take your head myself, as the Northerners do."

He nods, solemn. "I would take my own life before I ever betray you again."

Elia has not forgiven him, does not even completely trust him yet. But she knows he would rather die than let a sword touch her or her children, and for now, perhaps that is all she can ask of him.

"I hope that won't be necessary," she says coolly. "Arise, Ser Arthur."

Beyond the White Sword Tower, the first hints of dawn are touching the horizon, pale yellow slivers of sky slowly stretching towards where stars still gleam. The sun will rise soon, as it does every morning without fail, and a new day shall dawn once more.

**Author's Note:**

> There's no specific edit for this piece, but I did make a Queen Elia edit for Dorne week that's set in the same verse [here.](https://thundersnowstorm.tumblr.com/post/183026140171/dorne-house-martell-week-day-7-favorite-au)


End file.
